Why am I doing this?

#1

He plays piano olive-fingered—
sans pimento,
salty green and lightly
drained — his dancing tips
streaking,
squeaking as they tap
the keys. And the grand pianoforte with
its acid-stained ivories plays along.

#2

slice through brane and part the
cosmos like skin from muscle
flesh from bone shucking off
sheaths and basements like freshly-picked
corn to see the seeds glow golden in light and
marvel at the possibles

#3

I
wrote a poem for
you
the other day and read it to
you last night over a
table set for
two in candlelight, set
in a courtyard strewn
with rose and lily petals that
echoed the Harvest Moon hanging low
and heavy
overhead,

and you didn't like it.

Oh, you
didn't say anything, but
your eyes betrayed
you with how they
crinkled at the
corners like candy
wrappers, transluscent skin
creasing, wrinkling, twinkling in
the candelight, and I knew I had to smooth them
out somehow. But how could I when
you lack the means to appreciate
my artistry with word and phrase and
imagery? Was there nothing
I could craft with utmost delicacy and
pained finesse that would appease
you?

We disagree on the merits of cheese—
I would much rather do without—
and I prefer my sap straight from the tree; not
boiled down until all that remains is the
sticky, saccharine entrapment of flies. And
don't get me started on
your taste in flowers (have mercy upon
me, your poor, allergic half who breaks out in
hives at the merest conception of
exquisite, elaborate bouquets, and refrain from over-
indulgence in the gaudy blooms, particularly the
purple ones).

With such dissimilar tastes in beauty, I
have to wonder how
we wound up together. You
are my harshest critic, utterly unpleasable and
possessed of poor taste in literature, so why do
I strive to make you smile with what
I write?

Perhaps it is a conceit of
mine in thinking and believing that if
I can write a piece that pleases
you, then I shall be able to write
anything at all to great
success. After all, a writer is only as
strong as his connection to his
audience,

and we have the strongest connection of all.

Spoiler

If this poem makes you smile, I have succeeded.

#4

By the light of the moon in the month of June
sang the solemn, lonely loon
to the distant, twinkling tune
of the singing star above—

and the star in the sky from its seat so high
heard, sang louder in reply,
looked down with its shining eye,
and smiled at the loon below.

Spoiler

I've always had a soft spot for rhyming poems.

Spoiler

Don't ask.

#5

There once, or wasn't, was a doc
who lived in the iconic clock
which stood above a certain town—
strange how it did not fall down
considering it stood on air...
but that's neither here nor there—
whose people used to keep the time
by marking shadow-passing lines
on buildings that they painted green
because the face could not be seen
since the clock was built so high...
but does that not all sense decry?
To build a clock which can't be used—
methinks someone must be amused
with how they tricked the townsfolk there
by building a clock on open air.
I wonder if he built them stairs,
else how would they make repairs,
and how would our doctor friend
have been able to ascend
to his current state of residence?
But none of this holds relevance
to the tale I was to tell
of that dreadful day
when the tower went and fell.

It all began one sunny day (as all Days of Misfortune do)
when the doc awoke to a knock on his face, a solid one-two,
and came up swinging in reply,
but he could not nail the guy
who dodged and weaved and ducked, so spry,
so the doc gave him The Eye
which bowled the bloke right over,
like a fox would a plover,
and gave the doc the chance to kick the man out on his face...
but it didn't quite work out that way.
You see, the doctor in his haste
aimed too high. His kick went stray
and sent the guy flying far awaaaaay...
No one's found him to this day.
And needless to say, the force of the kick was so great,
and Newton's Laws decided to make themselves known,
and the doctor lived at the tower's top,
so the force set the clock tipping over, down
onto the rooves of the poor little town,
specifically onto the open shop
of a man whose business had so grown
that inevitably he had become the town's karma bait.
So the story ends happily for everyone,
except the townsfolk who lost income
from tourists to costly repairmen
who charged union rates and then
didn't finish the work on time.
Why am I still talking in rhyme?
This story is finally over. The tower is fallen,
the town left in shambles,
the doc is no longer around to fight pollen,
so hay fever freely about the town ambles
and the clock tower has been disassembled
to build a new structure that resembles
a giant picnic basket.

KAMAS BAIT. You never listen. :c

The first and last lines are hilarious if read together.

Spoiler

You want a hint? Here several are.

#6

O colon: our vow'd friend
in times dire,
each day
invaded by the
enigmatic why which should be
ignored. Ask yourself:
in what direction does sanctum lie?

#7

wish
stimulate mold
new ideas in system field
discipline the mind moves
on in reels angular
momentum maintained by
centralized pull

breakaway new
direction
line

#8

guaiacol and
woodsmoke perfume the air as
horseradish grinds to a pulp, per-
oxides stinging the nose and
eyes as buffer sits on
standby

Spoiler

http://www.faizyme.com/assaperg.htm

#9

I see shadows in the starlight,
light within the void,
pinpricks of explosion,
ordered into chaos,
falling, ever
falling down the
never-ending drop,
the world beneath curving,
always one foot ahead.

#10

I am a poker of potholes logical,
from pinholes to sinkholes,
quarries to kinks
in the patterns of bonding, ever-
probing the probable, prod-able chinks
for a finger-hold like friction.

#11

I staggered to bed the other night
for my chair leapt out on stick-stiff legs
to trip me while a table conspirator
stood ready to corner my head.
But thanks to the aid of my sister fair
and her exquisitely long and braided-strong hair,
disaster was diverted; my
skull was spared the table's assault,
but not my sister's.

Spoiler

i r liric riter :B

#11

Have you heard the sound of silence?
It's a beautiful thing
to be in a place so quiet
you can hear your soul sing
without the interference of a thousand restless voices.

To be so well-attuned to the absence of noises
that you can hear the rhythmic, steady beat
of the crow's wings ten miles out;
long before you see him,
you will hear him thereabouts.

Would you hear the sound of silence
were you given the chance?
Would you venture to the wildness
of the wilderness' dance?
Would you visit with the crow as he soars upon high?

Would you brave true solitude to look in his eye
and sing to him the song you heard your soul sing to you?
Would you sing to him the song that belongs just to you?